


One-Hundred-Forty-Seven

by orphan_account



Series: Anoesis [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Other, Reading, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, in which R is a genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Enjolras frowns and sits up properly, his blue eyes calculating but warm. They seem to be taking in Grantaire, taking in his pile of literature, taking in the wine that still flecks his lips. “First of all, that’s my book,” he accuses.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Grantaire nods slowly. “You lent it to me. Go on.”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Second of all,” he says and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why are you reading these things?”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Grantaire ducks his gaze and idly flips through the book, not really reading but scanning. “I like them,” he admits. “They keep me entertained. And busy. And I’ve always liked to read.” He blushes and it feels like deep scarlet, so he can’t bring himself to look Enjolras in the eye when he continues. “Okay, so don’t tell people, but I’m sort of a genius.”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>There’s a long silence and Grantaire just knows that Enjolras is staring, and not in the good way that makes his insides tingle and burn.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I’m sorry, but what?” Enjolras finally says, his voice coming out hoarse and choked off. </i></p><p> </p><p>Grantaire hates this conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-Hundred-Forty-Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This is part of my e/e/r series. The first fic is not required to read this one. They're all meant to stand alone. In fact, they're not even written in a particular order! This one takes place toward the beginning of the relationship. Enjoy!

 

Grantaire doesn’t mean to do it.

The thing is, he can’t really bring himself to stop. He ran out of his own books years ago, and buying new ones – even used ones – are an expense he can’t afford. The library’s collection is dismal, Eponine’s textbooks have all been perused and read, so he’s been without reading material for a long time. There are only so many times a man can reread _1984_ before he starts to memorize it.

So, in the end, it’s not all that surprising that he winds up stealing Enjolras’s books.

It’s not intentional. He doesn’t think they’re at that point in their relationship, that point where everything is sort of just _shared_. He doesn’t even know that they have a relationship beyond fuck buddies.

(And if that’s all he ever gets out of this arrangement, he and Eponine will be more than happy, he thinks.)

But since they don’t instinctively share yet, Grantaire always asks before he borrows. He’s very careful with Enjolras’s books - Eponine may call him the Book Wrecker, but Grantaire is very respectful to others’ precious property. Enjolras doesn’t seem the type to doggy ear pages or highlight beloved passages, and he certainly wouldn’t appreciate Grantaire’s biting commentary in the margins of his favorite philosophy books.

It’s not his fault that Enjolras always forgets to ask for his books back.

To be honest, Grantaire forgets. Often. His library fines are legendary and it’s no secret that a book lent to Grantaire is actually a book gifted to him.  Anyway, Enjolras barely seems to notice that Grantaire is asking, he just nods and waves a hand in permission.

It’s one of Grantaire’s rare days off from work.

It’s been a while since Grantaire was able to spend an entire day reading and doing little else, and he intends to enjoy it. Armed with his favorite beaten copy of Edith Hamilton’s _Mythology,_ two versions of _Aeneid_ , and his newest book from the Library of Enjolras, he settles onto the couch with a bottle of cheap wine, a champagne glass, and boxes upon boxes of granolas bars and fruit snacks.

(Eponine sneaks a few apples into his pile when she leaves for class, reminding him that he can’t live on words, wines, and junk with a kiss to that spot underneath his ear that makes him shiver. He responds that she’s right – he needs her and Enjolras, too. She laughs and rolls her eyes but kisses him again and wedges his cell phone into the couch cushions. “Just in case,” she says with a mischievous grin.

Grantaire doesn’t want to know.)

He’s made his way through the highlights of _Mythology_ – and by highlights, he means actual highlighted pages, from his favorite tasks of the Hercules tale to the entire legend of Atalanta – and half of the bottle when his phone starts to buzz.

At first, he ignores it. He’s working on the _Aeneid_ now, and he’s finally making real progress.

He’s only gotten through a few more lines when it buzzes again.

Disgruntled, he throws the phone at the opposite wall without checking Caller ID.

He’s read three pages by the time it buzzes again. It’s a sort of pathetic sound, the poor phone now facedown on the ugly carpet, convulsing erratically. Grantaire sighs, folds over the page, and rolls off the couch to retrieve it.

He takes a second to assess damage – there is none, it’s a Nokia, but some habits can’t be broken – before he flips it open and presses it to his ear with a long-suffering sigh. “Grantaire speaking, unfortunately. What do you want?”

“Oh,” the voice on the other end goes apologetically, and Grantaire’s heart bursts into confetti. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to interrupt you.”

“Oh!” Grantaire sits with his back to the wall and eyes his book pile longingly. “No problem, Enjolras.” He wants to keep on reading but – _no_. Because _Enjolras_. And he’s not sure if the book or the man would distract him more. “Shouldn’t you be in… Social Theory class?”

Enjolras laughs. “Eponine wasn’t kidding when she said you two memorized my schedule, was she?”

“Of course not.” Grantaire had it tacked up to the refrigerator with his and Eponine’s monthly calendar. “So why aren’t you in class?”

Enjolras makes a strangled sounding noise from the back of his throat. “Um. Well. Professor Lamarque dismissed us early.”

Grantaire blinks and is extremely glad that Enjolras can’t see his smirk. He’d probably start scowling and pouting and – nope, he really wishes Enjolras could see his smirk. “Did you start another fight?”

“It was a _discussion_ , you can’t expect me to just –”

“All right, I get it, I get it,” Grantaire interrupts smoothly, having heard this rant at least forty-seven times. (It’s not like he counts on purpose, it just sort of happens in his brain). “Why don’t you come over? I’m off from work, so I’m just hanging around. We could wait for Eponine together?”

He doesn’t say that they could try to build a relationship that’s not sex, even though he really wants to. He doesn’t say they should have sex without her, because she would kill them both for not letting her watch. He just stays silent and waits for Enjolras to respond.

“That sounds great,” Enjolras finally says. Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice. “Need me to bring anything?”

Grantaire’s mind goes crazy – condoms, lube, alcohol, real food (because the apples are gone and, surprisingly, granola bars and fruit snacks aren’t enough) – but then he looks over at his nest and his whirring brain just stops at the beautiful cover of his still unfinished book. “Just something to read,” he says with a grin.

* * *

 

 

Grantaire loves reading with people.

Some people are perfect reading company. Some are content to read in silence, occasionally interrupting their companion to share a brilliant quote or even yell at the book. Grantaire is no stranger to launching books across the room in anger, and Eponine has been witness to too many of these instances.

Then there is bad reading company. They can’t stand the silence only permeated by the gentle flip of pages, try to fill it with inane chatter while their companion is clearly in the middle of an amazing chapter.

Evidently, Enjolras is the latter.

“Are you really reading the _Aeneid?_ ” he asks from across the couch. It had taken some considerable rearrangement to fit them both on the tiny, lumpy cushions, but now they were toe to toe, curled up against the arms with a soft blanket over them both.

Grantaire considers glaring but instead just sighs. “Yes. Why? Is that shocking? _You’re_ reading your history textbook.”

Enjolras hugs the tomb to his chest protectively, cheeks flushing the pale marble until it’s turned pink. “I find it interesting.”

"And I find this interesting," Grantaire retorts, waving his book in the air. He bookmarks his page anyway and drops it on the floor beside his champagne glass. Enjolras had raised an eyebrow at it upon entering the apartment, but Grantaire didn’t feel any need to explain. It just feels classier. “Anyway, my head is beginning to hurt.”

“Maybe it’s the wine,’ Enjolras quips smugly.

 _Or maybe it’s the conjugation of Latin verbs_ , Grantaire thinks, perhaps even more smug, but doesn’t say anything. He grabs the borrowed book and hauls it onto his lap with a shrug. “Small text, probably,” he excuses and reaches over to the coffee table to retrieve a clean napkin for a bookmark. His pencil also goes to the floor – no annotating Enjolras’s book. No bending pages. No cracking the spine.

As much as Grantaire loves to read new things, he really hates other people’s books.

It takes all of two seconds for Enjolras to comment. “Is that _The Prince_?”

Grantaire glances at the cover. “Wow, look at that. You can read! Now will you let me?”

“But –“ Enjolras stops himself and Grantaire sighs, muscles tensing in preparation for what always happens.

He hates this conversation. He always gets through it, but he hates it. “Go on,” he prompts.

Enjolras frowns and sits up properly, his blue eyes calculating but warm. They seem to be taking in Grantaire, taking in his pile of literature, taking in the wine that still flecks his lips. “First of all, that’s _my_ book,” he accuses.

Grantaire nods slowly. “You lent it to me. _Go on_.”

“Second of all,” he says and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why are you reading these things?”

Grantaire ducks his gaze and idly flips through the book, not really reading but scanning. “I like them,” he admits. “They keep me entertained. And busy. And I’ve always liked to read.” He blushes and it feels like deep scarlet, so he can’t bring himself to look Enjolras in the eye when he continues. “Okay, so don’t tell people, but I’m sort of a genius.”

There’s a long silence and Grantaire just knows that Enjolras is staring, and not in the good way that makes his insides tingle and burn.

“I’m sorry, but _what?_ ” Enjolras finally says, his voice coming out hoarse and choked off.

Grantaire sighs and rolls his eyes. He sets the book on the coffee table and reaches for his glass – then thinks better of it and grabs the bottle. “I’m a genius,” he says simple and takes a swig of wine. “Not quite Mensa material, but they had me IQ tested when I was seventeen. One-hundred-and-fucking-forty-seven. On the Cattell scale – I refused to be tested on the Stanford-Binet. Don’t actually remember why, I think I was just being contradictory.” He glares at no one in particular. “Never really wanted to be tested. But I was so awful at focusing in school – see, I only pay attention when I’m interested – that they got me tested for everything under the sun.”

“And they came to the determination that you’re a genius,” Enjolras said dully.

He doesn’t believe him, Grantaire realizes without too much sadness. Nobody ever believes the drop-out drunk is intelligent, let alone above intelligent. He shrugs. “Yeah. If you want proof or something, just ask Eponine. She’s seen the test results and everything. Plus, she was there during that week that I got bored and decided to learn Latin.” He blushes again, remembering the exasperation on his parents’ faces when he came home from school, arms laden with language books. “It took longer than I expected to get the basics – two or three, I think – but I’ve been doing pretty well ever since.”

“And now you read _The Aeneid_ in Latin.” Enjolras’s eyes have flicked to the book as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “What’s the other copy for?”

“Oh!” Grantaire almost forget he even brought that one out. He picks it up. “English. In case I get stuck. I don’t usually, though.”

And this is why he hates this, because the _staring,_ the disbelief, the way he’s undeniably changed in Enjolras’s eyes.

He knows Enjolras doesn’t think highly of him. Eponine knows it. Enjolras knows they know it. Sometimes, Grantaire wonders why Enjolras even agreed to become part of their odd little relationship.

(Probably the sex, the sex is really awesome.)

But now that’s changing and Grantaire can almost _watch_ as the cogs turn behind Enjolras’s eyes.

“Why are you working in _retail_ , R?” Enjolras asks softly, confusion clouding the cogs. “I mean – if you’re really that smart –”

“I am.”

“ – if you’re that smart – what about school?”

Grantaire shakes his head, laughing to himself, because Enjolras really doesn’t understand. “I hated school, okay? I nearly flunked every class. _This_ – exactly this is why I left home. ‘Go to university,’ they said. ‘Get a degree!’ And I will, yeah, I definitely will one day. But not – not because I feel obligated to. Plus, I like my job.” He takes another gulp of wine before he continues, averting his eyes once again. “Eponine and I can’t afford for us to both attend school at once. Once she graduates and gets a steady job, then I can go to school, and by then, my parents will have given up. They’ll stop trying to get me to _do something_ like – like cure cancer or shit – and they’ll let me study what I want.” He lets a smile quirk at the sides of his lips. “I only focus when I’m interested.”

Enjolras says nothing.

They’re not reading anymore. Grantaire hates silence when he’s not reading. “Look, so I’m smart, whoop-dee-doo. That’s great, I guess. My IQ actually means nothing. It’s just a number, right? And you know as well as anyone else that I’m a dumbass most of the time. I mean, just last week, I almost gave your friend Joly a heart attack because I started mixing drinks that are apparently really dangerous to have together or something? I dunno, it tasted fine. But still, you’d think someone like me would know that. Whatever. You’re smart, too, so don’t start feeling inferior or shit. It was bad enough when I had Eponine beating herself up about it. It wasn’t until I failed Calculus – not on purpose, by the way, that shit is hard – until she stopped that, so don’t start.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says and leans forward so they’re not toe-to-toe, they’re nose-to-nose and it’s swiping out all of his admittedly impressive brainpower. “You learned _Latin_ in a month.”

“Three weeks,” Grantaire corrects, but it comes out hoarse because Enjolras is absolutely on top of him and why did he dread this conversation again? “And it was just the basics.”

“What other languages do you know?” Enjolras asks and he’s in the middle of straddling Grantaire on the tiny couch, in the middle of wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire’s mind is officially mush. “Besides French and Latin, of course.”

 _How the fuck does he sound so put together?_ Grantaire wonders fleetingly, but the thought doesn’t last long because he’s struggling to answer his question. “Um,” he says, his brain stuttering all over the place. “English. And – um – yeah – some Italian. I, uh – uh, I started learning some Russian last year, but – the, um, the library – didn’t have much to work with.” Enjolras kisses that spot underneath his ear and he shivers. “Oh. And Klingon. I can speak some Klingon.”

“No Elvish?” Enjolras teases with more kisses, peppering them down his jawline until Grantaire is absolutely, entire _done_.

“Okay, that’s it,” he decides and pushed Enjolras backwards until he collides with the opposite arm of the couch. He kisses him hard on the lips, waiting for the blond man’s cue to go deeper, to let the fire burning start to flare.

The apartment door slams open and they fall apart, grinning sheepishly at Eponine.

She crosses her arms and shakes her head. “You know that he has a stack of your books in our bedroom, right?” she says to Enjolras, stepping forward to wave a hand through Grantaire’s curls lovingly. “He hoards them. Sometimes when he’s really bored, he’ll read them out loud to me.”

It takes Enjolras about ten seconds to jump up from the couch and drag them both to the bedroom.

Sometimes, Grantaire thinks later, curled up in bed between his boyfriend and girlfriend with a book  _somewhere_ in the sheets, a relaxing reading day is all he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is (almost) better than books!


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